


the wolves will rise again

by wildpath3102



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, F/M, I don't know, One Shot, Post Season 8, Pregnant Arya, Shit, i hope you enjoy!!!, it's been two years since i posted on here, listen you don't get tully fertility and the baratheon seed and expect nothing, wait maybe three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 16:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19254847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildpath3102/pseuds/wildpath3102
Summary: Arya struggles to become herself again after a lifetime of war. There were many who helped her on her path, but none so much as these people.





	the wolves will rise again

i. Sandor

The Hound was surprisingly kind to her on the road. He once yelled at her to “slow the fuck down” because he had found some mint leaves growing off to the side, which he had given to help settle her stomach. He knew full well that Arya could hold her own, so not once did he order her to rest. He merely did the difficult camp work before she could beat him to it. It was their unspoken rule: Arya would do what she could, and he the rest. He never babied her, but he always took a little longer than what was fair to keep watch at night. Arya never said anything, even when she had to leap off her horse to vomit in the bushes. 

When they reached their destination of King’s Landing, they wished each other the best. Sandor Clegane thought they would part then and there, but Arya rushed him and gave him a fierce hug. “Take care and kill the bitch, no matter what it takes,” he ordered. The she-wolf grinned devilishly. “I’ll see you on the other side.” She smirked before melting into the shadows of the Red Keep.

And so Sandor waited, longsword in hand, for the heavy clinks of armor to arrive in the courtyard. It did not take long for the Mountain to find him. On the inside of the keep, Arya Stark prowled like a wildcat towards the queen’s tower. 

After it was done, Arya found her brother sobbing and hanging on tight to his Dragon Queen before turning to her and clutching her in his arms. The Wars of Men were finally over. 

Arya didn’t stay long in the capital. Just long enough to mourn the fallen, including the Hound. Sandor had taken his revenge and killed his brother, but not without paying the ultimate price. In the following days, his wounds became deeply infected. She took the ointments from the maester and applied them to the festering wounds herself. Arya was at his side until his shallow breathing faded into silence.

He had smiled at her, grasped her small hand in his rather oversized one, and whispered his final words: “Go to him.” Even when he was buried, she did not cry. The pain had a tight grip around her heart, squeezing her until she wasn’t sure if she was alive anymore. 

Eventually, she bid farewell to Jon and the others, knowing great change was coming to the Seven Kingdoms. And with a tearful hug from him, she saddled her horse and rode south, not quite sure what she would do once at Storm’s End.

 

ii. Davos

The steward was the first to greet her, just after the guards. They had seen her weary face and the Stark sigil, escorting her inside. She did not ask to see anyone. In fact, she did not say a word. Her mind was too busy swirling with a seemingly endless vortex of thoughts that had plagued her whole journey.

The Great Hall had fires going, but they did not contend with the roaring flames that had burned the living and the dead. She doubted anything would ever compare to the scorching heat of dragonfire.

The steward drew up a chair by the fireside and guided her gently to it. With a dip of his head, he took his leave. Arya stared into the red, unfazed by the burning sensation. The heat tickled her skin, and the screams grew ever louder with every passing moment. The flames consumed her vision until Davos’ voice drew her back to some semblance of reality.

“My lady,” he had said kindly. Beneath the mass of salty whiskers, she saw the warm smile, the smile so like her father’s. Memories of childhood and Ned came rushing back to her in powerful waves. 

He knelt and touched her arm, as if to wake her from her trance. As she let herself collapse into his grasp, her body began to shake ever so slightly. With a tut, he gathered her into his arms, just as he had done with his own children. “We’ll take care of you little lady, don’t you worry.” Arya said nothing in response but held onto his tunic a little tighter. 

Storm’s End was oddly quiet, for a castle. Staff was few and far between, but the new handmaids that were around were careful to not speak to the mysterious Arya Stark. She had much to think about, and her heart was restless. Ser Davos had told them so. 

Arya would never forget that small kindness Davos bestowed upon her. She needed the silence to heal. In the evening, they would read in the library together. Sometimes he spoke of his now-adult children, and the girl he had considered his own daughter, Shireen. His eyes glistened with tears during those talks.

Eventually, Arya shared her own tales. Of Robb and Jon and Theon. Of Bran the climber and the young Rickon. Of Sansa and her dreams of knights and love. Of her Tully mother and Stark father.

Davos smiled and chuckled when appropriate, but he never said anything about the steadily rising swell in her belly.

 

iii. Jon

Sometimes he wrote from King’s Landing. The peace talks and reconstruction were going well. Arya, for her part, did not have the heart to respond for some time. Hers was a slow path to recovery, and even her favorite brother (cousin still didn’t sit well with her) could not fix her brokenness with a few words of the progress they were making in the city.

Arya thought of him every time she walked along the cliffs and beaches. She wondered if she patrolled the sands like Jon had walked The Wall. Once she thought she saw him, working at the docks. The man had a mop of unruly black hair, just like Jon, and she had called out to him as he tied knot after knot. But when he turned, she saw that it was not her beloved brother, but just a sailor who happened to be in port. 

Arya quickly apologized and sped away after that incident and did not return to the dock for a week.

Sometimes she fiddled with Needle. It brought her back to that cold, grey morning in Winterfell as she packed for King’s Landing when Jon had grinned and tousled her hair. But she never unsheathed the sword; she wasn’t quite ready to pick it up, not yet. Needle had ended so much. Arya needed a reminder of life, and Jon’s letters eventually evolved into what she needed. 

His words continued to come. Every time she saw a raven circle the maester’s tower, she would return to the castle and eagerly search its contents. His letters began to have less news of the city itself and more of the people within. He would speak fondly of Daenerys and Bran, who were leading the talks. He mentioned her bright eyes and the reluctance with which she had relinquished the throne. He was proud, nonetheless, that they had the makings of a just system with councillors from every corner of the realm. 

Once he spoke of a young girl that was not unlike Arya. She works in the kitchens, but she has all of your wit and fierceness. She’s given me much advice on the best way for us to approach ruling fairly, he said. Arya thought she would someday like to meet this girl. 

I miss Father and his guidance, truly. Jon had also said that in another letter. She dreamed of her parents that night.

After that one, she responded. It was a simple note, but at least it was a start:

I love getting your ravens. There is not much comfort in the world, but they bring some. I hope to see you soon, Jon. I love you ever so much.

Your little sister

 

iv. Ned

Her mother’s vibrant hair sometimes shone in the garden flowers, and each time, it brought a pang of grief to Arya’s heart. She saw young girls in the village being chided by their mothers for running too wildly. She wasn’t sure if the memories of Catelyn scolding her were fond memories or not. But still, they were of her mother, so she decided that maybe they weren’t so bad at all.

It was her father that followed her everywhere, though.

Eddard Stark’s ghost found her in the keep and out. He appeared in her dreams, at the cliffs overlooking the sea, and even in the corners of the castle. There was no Godswood for his shadow to lurk behind, no weirwoods for his face to be etched into. Arya didn’t know if she was grateful for that; had the northern trees been there, she was certain he would follow her there, too.

She saw his smile in the steward and heard his laugh in the kitchen boy. His honor and respect resided in Davos, who took great care with every letter that came and every commoner that arrived. His mousy brown hair shared the same texture and color of the new maester’s own hair.

When she was alone (which was more oft than not), she remembered his stern, yet loving, lectures. Mostly about Sansa, or pleasing her mother. Arya didn’t understand why she had to exist simply to please her mother and revel in her sister’s accomplishments. 

After much thought, Arya vowed that she would redefine what it meant to be a lady. She would never be lord of a holdfast, but she could still be the lady of a holdfast. And she could rule it with all the dignity, honesty, and love that her father had. What did it matter if she rode horses and fought in wars and refused to wear fine silks?

She thought of her time on the Kingsroad and all the chaos in the lives of the small folk. Her father would want to fix that. She wanted to fix that. 

Soon enough, she began to shoot arrows at targets again. Arya could still feel Robb’s hand pushing up on her elbow, correcting her aim, even after all the years gone by. During those moments, she would also feel her father’s unwavering eye on her, watching her progress. It took a while, but she began to hit the center again. 

After the ghost of her father began to observe her, she never missed a shot. She wondered if he was proud of her, of the young woman she had become. If he would love her despite the emptiness that filled her heart and if he would forgive the growth in her belly.

She hit target after target and was glad they were not made of blood and bones.

 

v. Gendry

The storms drowned out her cries as pain shot through her body one night. Some man caught outside might’ve had his vision blurred by rain. Hers was blurred by blood.

Once the pain subsided, Arya did not weep. She merely sat in her tub, unmoving, fascinated by the red that pooled by her thighs. The handmaid discovered her in the morning, naked and asleep in her own blood. The poor girl’s shrieks brought the maester running. Arya didn’t remember much of it afterward, but she did not speak a word to anyone for a week.

Gendry arrived a fortnight later. He had a small company of men with him, each recruited once the peace talks in King’s Landing ended. Arya had no energy to even get dressed properly when Davos came to tell her of his return, and she had scarce eaten in weeks.

He came to her after supper that night. She wore nothing but her nightgown, a creamy white that hadn’t been cleaned properly in ages. Her hair was disheveled, her eyes dark and full of grief.

“Arya?” Gendry’s voice carried no further than a whisper, and it barely reached her ears. With the last bit of life that encompassed her soul, she met his gaze.

His eyes carried nothing but concern. Why would he still care? She thought bitterly. He shouldn’t.

Tentatively, he took a step towards her. When she did nothing, he crossed the divide between them and pulled her into a hug. Eventually, her hands snaked around his shoulders and held on so tight she thought her jagged nails would draw blood. She breathed in and smelled the sea and smoke on him. Even the remnants of steel and metal lingered in his raven black hair.

They did not part for what seemed like days. Then again, time had been a fickle thing of late. Arya was reluctant to let go, and so she still gripped his forearm when he led her to the front of the bed to sit her down. He ran his fingers through her tangled hair and kissed her forehead gently. She leaned into him and closed her eyes.

Only the gods could have known how long they sat there in silence just like that. He stroked her back and neck, the warmth of his hands seeping into her skin. Finally, he spoke.

“They told me what happened,” he said remorsefully. “I should have been here.” 

Her voice cracked when she finally responded: “No. You had things to do.” She hated how girlish she sounded. She hated her skin, the body that had failed her. Failed her son. No, their son. Arya bit her tongue until she tasted blood. She loathed her very being in that moment.

A second passed, then two. Gendry wrapped her in his arms again and cradled her head against his chest. It was there that her tears finally came, soaking into his fine leather tunic.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. Gendry pressed his nose into her hair, despite the oil and grease that had saturated it for so long. His voice was sharp. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. None of this is your fault. And I will spend the rest of my days telling you that if I have to.” Arya didn’t quite believe him; it was her body, her weakness, after all. Still, she nodded into him as he pressed another chaste kiss to her damp forehead.

It was difficult to breathe, considering the sobs that wracked her body at erratic intervals and how closely she was pressed to him. She could not move, nor could she tear herself away from him. She had been away from Gendry before, and she hoped with all her heart that she would never leave him again.

Being here, now, with him began to fill the ache that had clamped onto her heart for so long. She could feel it release its cold grip and begin to back away, chased into the dark by the light that Gendry emitted. 

They fell asleep like that. On top of the mattress and above the covers, hands intertwined. When Gendry awoke the next morning, he could smell the salt of the ocean drifting through the balcony into Arya’s chamber. He opened his eyes, blinking away the crust that had gathered under his eyelids over the night. Arya was watching him, tracing circles on his clothed forearm absentmindedly. 

That became their routine. Gendry never slept in his own chambers, and nobody dared say anything about their sleeping arrangements. Slowly, Arya began to speak and smile again. She even ventured outside the keep and relished in the cool sea breeze. Gendry would often join her, and take her hand as they did.

The loss of Jon (for they had decided to name their unborn child) rang throughout the walls of Storm’s End, striking the hearts of everyone within. Awakened by dreams of the creatures that prowled the night, Arya would yell and claw the air with unparalleled fury and fear. Gendry was always there to hold and ground her. And when Gendry bellowed in his nightmares from the same nightmares, Arya pinned down his arms to keep him from whacking something and wiped his forehead clear of the sweat beads, endlessly whispering, “I’m here, it’s okay, it’s just Arya.”

Mutilated by darkness alone, but mended by love together. They always managed to chase the other’s demons away, and as the months passed by, the dark stopped coming so often. Gendry settled into his role as Lord of Storm’s End, and Arya began to take to her beloved Needle once more. Soon enough, she was training the young boys of the Stormlands. Girls came shyly at first, but once they saw the prowess of the Bringer of Dawn and She-Wolf, they joined excitedly (and came in flocks) to learn from the mighty Arya Stark.

It was not long before they began to make lay together again. Their second time was on a cloudless night. Instead of grain sacks, it was upon their bed. The doors to the balcony were open, and a cool breeze from the ocean tickled their bare skin as they sighed into each other.

Her name floated upon his lips like a prayer. “Arya,” he whispered, time and time again, as he kissed each of the jagged lines that stretched like lightning across her torso. 

“Ask me again,” she said one night when they finished. Gendry raised his eyebrows in confusion. She sighed, exasperated, “To marry you.” A grin spread across his lips, creeping its way from one corner to the other.

“Arya, you are the strongest, most wonderful, kind, beautiful woman I have ever met,” he whispered. His voice was quiet, small even, and yet, it managed to fill her entire world. “I won’t ask you to be the Lady of Storm’s End -- not unless you want it -- but will you be my wife, and I your husband? Be with me, if you can. My heart will always be yours.”

The words poured out from his soul, and her eyes glistened with something akin to happiness. She nodded as best she could, a grin also breaking like the dawn over the green hills she had grown up in. 

“Yes,” she whispered against his chest. “I’ll marry you and be the Lady of Storm’s End. But not just any ordinary lady. I’ll be the most fearsome lady any Baratheon has taken to wife.” Her declaration made Gendry chuckle. “Anything you desire, Lady Arry.”

 

vi. After

They waited just long enough for their families and friends to arrive. By the time they had all gathered, Arya was smiling every day and Gendry simply laughed when they called him Lord of the Smithy (when he was not with Arya or doing lordly things, he was working the forge.) He took pride in being called the Bastard Lord, but Arya would still manage to get a threat in before he whisked her away.

Arya raised an eyebrow when Sansa presented her sister with a lovely gown of grey silk and lace. She giggled when Sansa also snuck her a pair of thin trousers to wear underneath. Patched onto the corner was a wolf with the antlers of a stag upon its head. Arya hugged her sister tightly and wore both. 

Bran officiated the wedding in the grove that overlooked Shipbreaker’s Bay. It was no weirwood, but it was close enough. The leaves of the weeping willow dangled in front of the couple as they exchanged their vows and switched their cloaks. None of the guests were surprised by this. Instead, they all grinned at the She-Wolf and her Lord Husband and cheered when they finally sealed the ceremony with a kiss.

The feast was magnificent, and the smallfolk were invited to attend as well. To the disappointment of many (but the relief of Jon), there was no bedding ceremony. Arya smirked devilishly as she dragged Gendry to their shared chambers. Most liked to speculate that was the night his seed quickened within her, for it was almost exactly nine moons later when their child was born.

They pondered many names during the entirety of Arya’s pregnancy. She would often walk the same paths as when she first arrived at Storm’s End, remembering the dark thoughts that had plagued her mind. It was with a full heart she chose to consider names instead, and release the ghosts that had haunted her for so long. 

In the end, it was a girl, and Gendry could not tear his eyes from the small babe nestled at her mother’s chest — or the mother herself. They decided Shireen Stark-Baratheon, the second of her name, would be more than suitable. Despite neither knowing her namesake, they could only hope their daughter would grow to be as kind and gentle as Gendry’s young cousin. Davos cried from joy when he first held her, and they knew they made the right choice.

Arya did not pray much anymore, but she did say a little thank-you every night to Sandor for all that he had done.

She continued to read in silence with Davos but also worked closely with him and the steward on the stores. She adored his grandchildren when they came to visit.

Arya wrote Jon weekly and always asked of Daenerys (and the kitchen girl.) Eventually, she went to King’s Landing to meet her and visit her young nephew, Ned.

Gendry surprised her with a weirwood tree for their fifth anniversary. Once planted, it never stopped flourishing, and still, she could see her father’s smile in the wood and her mother’s brilliant Tully hair in the leaves.

Arya teased him relentlessly every time she gave birth, for without fail, he cried upon holding his child for the first time. After quick and kind Shireen came Mycah, who had Arya’s long face of the north and dreamed of becoming a fierce warrior. Then arrived the ever-studious Matthos, who loved to read and ride horses from dawn till dusk. Their last was Argella, and she adored nothing so much as watching her father in the forge and learning his trade. Each had dark hair and blue eyes and possessed the spirit of the true north. 

Much as she teased Gendry, Arya found that she had never loved so deeply and that as long as they were together, along with all their bull-headed wolfish children, the nightmares of the past would never scare her. Not as long as she had her pack.


End file.
